Poetic Musings
by YellowRosesAndHearts
Summary: Jane uses some of his favorite poems to describe Lisbon. One Shot.


_**Okay, I've been on a writing kick lately. This is just some J/L fluff/angst. I could see Jane being a poetry buff, so I gave him that trait. Poems referenced: She walks in Beauty (Byron), newlY born horse (cummings), Spring and fall (Hopkins), La belle dame sans merci (Keats) and The Hollow men (Eliot)**_

_**Here is the Byron poem, because it turns up the most. A lot of it is very not Lisbon-ey, but I thought some of it kind of captured the mystery she might have, so.**_

_She walks in beauty, like the night_

_of cloudy climes and starry skies_

_and all that's best of day and night_

_meet in her aspect, and her eyes._

_Thus mellow'd to that tender light_

_which heaven to gaudy day denies._

_One ray the more, one shade the less_

_had half impair'd the nameless grace_

_which waves in every raven tress_

_or softly lightens o'er her face; _

_where thoughts serenely sweet express_

_how pure, how dear, their dwelling place._

_And on that cheek, and o'er that brow_

_so soft, so calm, yet eloquent_

_The smiles that win, the tints that glow_

_but tell of days in goodness spent_

_a mind at peace with all below_

_a heart who's love is innocent._

_***_

Jane has had plenty of interests in forty years. Because things get old fast, he finds, he's always trying to move to the next thing.

He picked up poetry in college, and it's one of the very few things to last years rather than months. A love of words, and the way people arrange them. The key to who they are, Jane thinks, and it makes sense that he enjoys it, because people are the only other interest he's ever had that didn't eventually get boring.

Teresa walking in early one morning, wearing a tailored black suit with a skirt that hits her knees. And high heels, and a scowl. She's testifying in court today, and apparently the skirt gets a better reaction from the jury, according to the jury consultant. Jane can only imagine why. But she holds herself differently in the skirt, taller somehow, longer neck, longer legs. Some elegance that isn't usually there. _One ray the more, one shade the less, had half impaired thy nameless grace._

That's if he was Byron, he practically worships the subject of his poem. Minute details: he can see him, lovelorn, on about the blush in her cheek; so, so, taken with her. Teresa's dark hair—messy after she's chased down a suspect, and green, green eyes. Skin that is probably always warm, and she always smells like vanilla and jasmine, but still hard edged, Uncompromising, _la belle dame sans merci._

And lovely, too, but not temperate. She would be a late August day in Florida—thunderstorms, lightening, the sunshine, but usually a little bit more humid than you wanted. Flash of calm skies, but he liked the thunder. Sometimes scary, lengthening herself to argue with him, and he's such a sucker for a challenge, loves being beaten. Conquest has its place, but being conquered is something, too.

Finds him attractive but doesn't give in to it, will not. All of this grace she has, holding herself above it, unattainable.

And then comes down to earth. Walks by her office one day, spies her crying near her window—a rough time earlier, she and Rigsby out in the field, when Rigsby suddenly shoves her out of the way of a suspect, and gets a hole in the shoulder for his trouble. Rigsby will be fine, but he's one of hers, and she let it happen. He could have died—her shoulders shaking, wiping her eyes, soft hiccups. He could have died, she could die, it's a dangerous job. That's really what it is. _It's Teresa she mourns for._

Later that same day, Jane walks her to her car. Uninvited, of course, she's annoyed to have him here. "Jane, this is ridiculous, I'm fine." Cheeks puffy and redder than usual, all of her eyeliner cried off. Doesn't know he knows she's been crying. Voice gone, can only husk the words out, and even though he knows why she sounds like she does, can't help but be enticed by it. Almost ashamed of himself for admiring it so much. Wants her to talk to him more, and close his eyes, and get lost in it.

He flicks a small flower from a low-hanging tree, a pink one, and puts it behind her ear. Face soft—without make-up, and the flower behind her, looks years younger than usual. Can't imagine himself kissing her, but can see some guy who looks just like him—some boundary he can't imagine crossing, not if he's himself. Doesn't even physically seem like a possibility. Same distance Byron has from his subject, can only admire her mystery, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies. Daylight more accessible than she is.

She walks a few steps with him, face breaking into a smile. Green eyes crinkle at the sides, but don't get smaller. Lights up, _the smiles that win, the tints that glow._

She takes the flower from her ear, and perches it on his ear instead. Warm fingers on his ears, temples, a sudden shock because she doesn't _touch_ him, she never does. Feels like the newlY born horse who knows nothing but feels everything.

Another night he cajoles her into going to this new place he's wanted to try—an artsy, bohemian sort of coffee shop that plays jazz at night. Low lit, mostly by lamps and candles, soft and sweet. Melodic, almost sensual. Loves the bass in the background and the way her shoulders move to it, eyes glowing in the dark, solemn, still some hint of mystery there. Not giving herself away. _And all that's best of day in night, meet in her aspect and her eyes._

He lets her drive his car to her apartment while he sits in the passenger seat, he has no idea why. Parks in front of her building, tilts her head up to him to murmur, "this was nice, Jane." Her voice the way it was that night Rigsby was hurt, but she hasn't been crying, and she hasn't lost her voice. But there's no tone to it except husk and earnestness, like all the other pieces of it have been somehow peeled off.

Her head tilted up and eyes down like an invitation, even though it probably isn't. Beating. Beating. Beating. And the night—still, but for wisps of breeze coming through the open window. Recognizes this feeling he has now, he's had it every day for the past five years. Longing.

But before now, longing for something he used to have. Longing for something right in front of him is foreign now, he doesn't know how to feel about it.

But in the car now, jasmine and vanilla and her green eyes—warmth coming from her skin, her thick dark hair.

Not so distant now.

But sees his wife and daughter, knows himself. _This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper._

And she is gone in the next second, slinking away like one of the ribbons of wind, off into the dark outside, becoming part of it.

_She walks in beauty._


End file.
